Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 72: _ Apocalyptic F*ck

Warning: Mature Content Ahead!

Pretty Boy blinks, stunned for a second, and then he rises up onto his elbows and pulls me down until our foreheads touch.

"I want you like I want to wake up tomorrow. Like the world isn’t worth it unless I know you’re in it."

Fuck.

Fuck.

Is this the system’s doing? It made me so fucking sexy that I already have his wrapped around my fingers by just existing.

Would he still like me if he remembered the rotting corpse he fought with? Would he still want me if he realized that rotting corpse was the real me?

My hole clench around him, and he groans like I’ve punched him in the gut. I kiss him again, hard and messy and grateful, because words don’t work anymore. My mouth says what I can’t:

Don’t leave me.

Don’t die.

Don’t stop being real.

He grabs my ass, aiding my motion as I bounce atop him, my hole swallowing and spilling his cock. I go on in slower strides at first until half of his mouth is set ajar and his face is scrunched up in pure need.

"Oh, Renata. Fuck, you’re so sweet." He groans.

The pleasure of seeing him so humbled under me, of the way my pussy clenches on his not-too-long but fat cock is euphoric.

I can’t even think straight. All I can feel is the sensation of his cock going in and out of me, and so, I increase the speed. I increase the pace, and so, the pleasure skyrockets until I think I’m losing my damn mind.

"Ahhhhh!" I scream, gripping the sheets as sensation charges through me like electricity.

Pretty Boy’s grip on my ass tightens, puffing it ever so thickly that it feels like one is slicing through cotton.

We move together in a rhythm forged not from experience or lust but need. Desperate, aching, world-ending need.

Our bodies grind and shake and fall apart. My thighs are slick, sweat pooling in the small of my back, his hands finally leaving my ass to fumble everywhere on my body like he’s trying to learn me by feel before time runs out.

And maybe it is. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Because tomorrow, the undead might claw their way through our walls. The girls might be gone. The sun might not rise. And I might lose him.

So I ride him like this is the last night I’ll ever get to touch something warm.

"Renata, I’m coming..." he gasps, voice breaking.

I nod, eyes brimming. "I know."

"I can’t hold it—"

"You don’t have to."

His hands fist the sheets, and with a groan like he’s been set on fire, he comes.

And I watch him the entire time. I watch him fall apart. Head tilted back, throat bared, bruised chest heaving like he’s survived a battlefield. I don’t look away. Not once.

Because that’s mine now.

The way he fell.

The way he shattered.

The way he let me see him.

.

.

He’s breathing hard, eyes unfocused, mouth parted. His hands are still clinging to me like I’m a lifeline and the ocean is full of teeth.

I lean forward, press a kiss to his damp temple, and whisper, "You’re still here."

He laughs—breathy and wrecked. "Barely."

"Still counts."

He slides his arms around me, pulling me close until I’m tucked against his chest. "You’re warm."

All thanks to the system.

"You’re heavy."

He chuckles again. "You’re a menace, girl."

"You’re mine," I murmur without meaning to.

He stills just for a second like the words are so unexpected because they are. Even to me.

Then he presses a kiss into my hair. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

Outside the door, the world doesn’t wait. Somewhere, metal groans. A wind whistles through broken glass. Maybe one of the girls coughs in her sleep.

But in here—in this bed that smells like dust and sex and sweat, we are safe.

Just for now.

And that’s enough.

******

I don’t sleep. Not like he does. I mean, not like a human.

I watch him instead; Pretty Boy... his hair is a chaotic halo against the pillow. His arm is still draped around me like he’s three and I’m a teddy bear he forgot to let go of.

His face is soft now, slack with whatever dreams flicker behind his eyelids, and every few minutes, he mutters nonsense like "left hook" or "don’t touch my sandwich," and it makes something in my dead chest twitch.

Something like... affection.

Stupid.

He shouldn’t hold me like this. He shouldn’t look this peaceful. He doesn’t know what I am.

What I really am. I don’t even know if this sex is healthy for him. He’s fucking a zombie. I don’t know if when the system made my physical appearance as a human’s, if it did that to my insides.

What if there are black worms crawling inside of me?

I ate the people I ate to the point of no return. If not, I would have gotten an answer to that question already when one of them turns into a zombie or not.

Perhaps, I’d do that. I’d bite one of our enemies, keep a close watch and see if they’d reanimated.

But then again, if I could make zombies, Pretty Boy would already become one from the moment he kissed me the other day.

I curl closer as the greedy thing that I am, and pretend for just a second longer that I’m one of them. Alive. Human. That I’m just another survivor trying to find comfort in the ruins.

But the moment stretches too long and starts to splinter at the edges, like thin ice under a careless step. And I can feel it. I feel the click in my brain. The slowing. The distant hum that comes when I slip into that half-death hibernation state.

I let my body go still and my mind retreats into the dark immediately. It’s not really sleep. It’s a pause. It’s like my own way to sleeping... or sending my mind on a journey.

And when I resurface after what feels like ten seconds later, or maybe an hour—my eyes snap open.

He’s still asleep and warm. Still wrapped around me like the world hasn’t ended.

I peel myself away, slowly, trying not to wake him. My legs feel heavy, like someone sewed bricks into my thighs overnight. My joints pop faintly as I sit up and rub at my face like it might smear the death away.

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

The apartment smells like sweat and old canned beans. I glance around, bleary, and find my underwear on the floor doing its best imitation of a tragic corpse. I step over it and scavenge through the pile of what might have once been clean clothes before the end of the world turned hygiene into a luxury.

Most of the clothes here belong to someone... daintier. Maybe even pre-pubescent. There’s a crop top that looks like it once dreamed of being a full shirt and a pair of shorts that were likely classified as underwear in several countries.

I sigh. "This is what I get for being thick in the apocalypse. Thank you, Requiem system."

I squeeze into the shorts first. Gosh, squeeze is being a charitable term for the small war that breaks out between my thighs and the waistband. When I finally get them on, they’re hugging my ass like they owe it money.

Next, the top. It stretches across my chest with a heroic squeak, clinging to every curve like it’s trying to confess something.

I glance at myself in the cracked mirror above the dresser.

"Oh, you’re a menace," I whisper to my reflection.

I’ve got a fucking god body, and that’s putting it mildly.

Even the undead can be sexy. Who knew?

I crack the door open and step into the hallway, wincing at the groan of the hinges. The floorboards whine under my feet as I pad toward the main living space.

Bea’s awake. Wow.

She’s hunched over an old tin of what smells like stale instant coffee, trying to make it edible with something that might be powdered milk. Her eyes lift as I enter, and she freezes with the spoon in mid-air.

"Jesus," she says. "Did you steal that outfit from a Bratz doll?"

I glance down at myself. "It’s called post-apocalyptic chic."

"You look like you’re about to start an OnlyFans."

"I’d make bank."

Bea scoffs and goes back to stirring. Yara is curled up on the couch, buried under a pile of jackets, snoring softly.

The room is dim, the curtains pulled halfway to keep out the worst of the morning glare. Dust motes float lazily in the air, catching in the streaks of sunlight like ghosts too tired to haunt.

Bea passes me a mug. "Don’t say I never did anything for you."

Is this her way of tending an apology for her betrayal yesterday? For walking me into a trap to save her own ass?

If I was still a human, I might have passed. But being an undead who eats people, I don’t think I have enough morality compass to judge anyone.

I accept it, sniff it, and grimace. "This smells like ass."

"Welcome to breakfast."

We drink in silence for a bit. Or at least I pretend to. The liquid tastes like burnt dirt. I let it sit on my tongue, just for the memory.

It still hurts and feels like I’m swallowing rotten meat and mold whenever I consume things that are not human flesh. It’s literally torture.

However, Bea might be a pain in the ass, but I can tell she’s one of those spiteful ones who studies and observes their rivals intently with the intent of learning their weaknesses and fishing for something that can be used against them.

I won’t let this bitch have a one on me.

Hence, I drink in a coffee that feels like I’m drinking acid.

Fuck Bea.